Read by Matilda Longbottom

AA sensible woman might raise an eyebrow when her husband shadows her with a chainsaw on Mother’s Day. Not our fearless gardener. Last Sunday morning, amidst child-manufactured bacon and eggs, I specifically requested this unusual celebration.

Anticipating a tedious tour of nurseries or, heaven forbid, a list of household chores, my husband visibly relaxed as I instructed him to fire up the trusty Stihl and join me for a whimsical game of “choppy choppy.” Now, I’m no damsel in distress, but when faced with the raw power of a chainsaw, I transform into a squeaky, twitching mess, channeling 19th-century feminine sensibilities.

The speed at which this mechanical marvel can dispatch a rogue ailanthus, an ancient forsythia, or even a femoral artery is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. To protect my cherished arteries, I routinely opt for the far less intimidating pruning saw when facing formidable woody adversaries.

Living amidst a woodland, the unchecked growth conceals mysteries that could rival a fairy tale. Armed with a pruning saw, I resemble a modern-day David, albeit one with bad knees and several extra decades. Hence, my unusual Mother’s Day request.

With the chainsaw roaring, my husband dutifully followed, slicing through layers of cambium wherever I heartlessly pointed. Our teenage son trailed behind in the ancient Land Cruiser, ready to clean up the aftermath, while our daughter prepared a delicious lunch of tuna-fish sandwiches and potato chips. Mother’s Day, my way.

Now, the challenge with men (brace for the inevitable backlash, she says) is their impatience once a plan is set in motion. My request barely escaped my lips before the barn echoed with the coughing of a two-stroke engine. Using semaphore signals, I halted the enthusiastic lumberjack to lay down ground rules. Red tape marked the civilized boundaries of my arboreal decision-making.

However, men being men, my thoughtful pause was met with blank stares and a familiar expression that suggested labor withdrawal if I didn’t get on with the pointing. And so, the chainsaw symphony commenced.

Identifiable casualties like the Winter-killed rhododendron, the ivy-besieged black willow, and the dogwood with one root in the grave fell swiftly to the swordsman of the apocalypse. My son efficiently cleared each fallen soldier onto the trailer.

As my pointing slowed, the pressure from the chainsaw-wielding madman increased. In a moment of confusion, I mistakenly targeted a tree near the deck for removal, envisioning a perfect opening in the canopy for May apples, phlox, and wild Arisaema. Alas, my momentary lapse led to a horrified revelation.

“Stop!!” I screamed. “It’s a redbud!!” His earplugs, whether shielding against two-stroke engines or hysterical wives, held strong. The tree, however, did not.

Now, the redbud’s lifeless form taunts me from the view of my kitchen window, too substantial for my son to remove without further dismemberment—a daily reminder of my chainsaw misadventure.

Happy Mother’s Day, Marianne, you redbud-murdering monster. ❖

About the Author: Marianne Willburn is a Master Gardener who writes from Lovettsville, VA. You can read more at www.smalltowngardener.com or follow The Small Town Gardener on Facebook.